Rice & Beans
by Sue Shay
Summary: Spoiler alert: My Blue Heaven 06x09 - This is STRICTLY MY GUESS of what happens after Jane kills Red John C'mon! Everyone knows Jane is gonna kill RJ, right? Somehow? It's gonna happen! It's MY GUESS on RJ'S ID. "Maybe prison wouldn't have been so bad after all. He would have been close to Lisbon: 28 miles instead of 3,670 miles & 6 countries away. " T for violent, graphic concepts
1. Rice & Beans

This is just AU of My Blue Heaven of how Jane ends up coming back to the US after escaping to a Latin American country. Forgive me, native Spanish speakers, for mangling your beautiful language. Please let me know what I've done incorrectly so I can fix it. I've been led to understand there is no Spanish equivalent to "The Smiling Charmer" so I went with "The Handsome Smile"

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Thank you, Make-Mine-A-Kiaora and Cumberland River Relic for your beta reading.

* * *

Patrick Jane hated rice and beans.

Lunch and dinner, dinner and lunch. Sometimes even breakfast came with a side of pintos in sauce.

Picking up his fork, he stirred the ubiquitous side dish and pushed the breaded unrecognizable meat away

At one time, it was easy to tolerate the repetition because he was _free_ to choose it. If he'd been in prison, the slop thrown onto his tray would have tasted like burnt plastic, even if it was first-rate prime rib and fresh lobster tail. So what if his choices were only five or six items written in chalk on a plank hanging on the wall of a scrap wood hut? It was freedom. Sorta. In the little village of La Mejor Vista near La Playa de la Cosecha where Walter Mashburn's yacht had dropped him off two years before, he could decide to eat rice and beans, or have beans and rice instead.

Then again, maybe prison wouldn't have been so bad. He would have been close to Lisbon, after all: 28 miles instead of 3,670 miles and six countries away. Okay, so she probably wouldn't visit him in Folsom if he turned himself in, and he could definitely rule out a conjugal. No doubt she was still pissed…no, furious with him. At the time they last talked, he was lucky she'd left him with his balls attached to his body. Two years wasn't even close to long enough for her to calm down.

So…no prison.

Frankly, Señor Patricio Tagus (or El Guapo Sonriente as he was sometimes known around the village) and his "mysteriously" unlimited colones were probably the only reason the restaurant stayed in business, since he never cooked for himself, no matter how boring the food had become. Remaining holed up in his cinderblock and broken stucco shack would have driven him mad.

Madder.

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Staying in or going out; it didn't really matter. He carried his own prison with him; two large green eyes filled with tears that placed inescapable steel bands around his chest, crushing the living breath out of him. Despite not being behind bars, he was still trapped in a cage, one of his own devising.

"¿Señor Tagus? ¿Rubio? ¿Le gusta esta comida?"

Jerking his eyes open and straightening in his seat, Jane smiled at the kindly cook who owned and operated the restaurant.

"Si, dulce madre."

His recollection of Spanish words was excellent so whenever anyone spoke with him, he could often catch their meaning. However, his syntax when speaking was subpar, despite two years in Costa Rica. On top of that, he'd try to put an Australian accent just to throw his potential pursuers further off his trail. After everything he'd been through, making even a minor mistake caused him to resort to charismatic grins and over the top compliments, hence the earned nickname "The Smiling Charmer".

Jane supposed it was better than Rico Gringo "The Wealthy Yankee" like Mashburn was called by the locals. "Rico Gringo Dias" were declared whenever Mashburn vacationed in his compound on the edge of town. A lot of money flowed on those days.

To stop Madre Maria from asking any more questions about his enjoyment of her cooking, Jane tucked into the simple dinner, consuming every bite. Rice, beans, mystery meat under a flour-based coating and some soft-boiled yuca – it was the same every Tuesday. If he was lucky, she had some mamón chino for dessert. If he was really lucky, she'd remember that he didn't like the seeds left in the fruit.

* * *

After trudging through the small town, he studied his neighbors' houses, looking for changes. Many of the homes showed caring because they were well tended but no money for actual improvements, except the new roof on the Sorenos family's home that Jane helped install.

Entering his decrepit hovel, he glanced around the one room hut. The place was a mess, he knew, and he recognized that the continuing decline was symptomatic of a worsening depression. In some ways, he was mystified how it could get messy at all. He didn't do much there, just lay in bed reading or rereading his collection of books. Yet the dirt seemed dirtier, the cracked plaster seemed more damaged. Sorta like his soul.

He sat on the lone seat in the room, a rusting folding chair across from his bed. After removing his shoes, he slipped them into the netted bag on the wall that prevented scorpions from using them as a prefab home. Then he took off his shirt and shorts before falling heavily onto his cot, realizing too late he was taking a chance that the rusty springs beneath the straw-filled mattress would hold against the impact. With dread, he listened to the old metal scream as it took his weight. Luckily, it didn't snap like his first bed had done.

He closed the mosquito netting over the bed. He'd survived one bout of dengue fever not long after he'd arrived which made him immune to that one strain. He had no interest in finding out about any of the other three strains. After his first illness, a mitigation program was instituted to eradicate the mosquitos that carried the virus, but Jane was taking no chances.

Settling onto his lone pillow and staring blankly at the spider-cracking in the ceiling plaster, he realized yet another change had come over him. By the sole candle that lit his lonely hovel, he no longer sought patterns in the random lines. The cracks were just cracks. The shadow cast against the stucco walls remained the outline of a stack of books instead of becoming a ziggurat or a tiered wedding cake.

The only images that now filled his vision alternated between the knife in his hand plunging into Red John's foul chest with red blood spraying, and later the tears brimming Teresa Lisbon's green eyes before she turned away from him for the last time as she struggled to keep her anger and disappointment from turning into rage. Both riled his stomach to nausea.

He needed to go to sleep, and like most nights it was difficult. For a while he listened to the white noise track in his head, trying to lull his mind by combining it with the frog song in the encroaching jungle. Just as he was slipping away, he said the four-word chant that he hoped would do some good in the world, even though he knew it was hopeless.

"I love you, Teresa," he said into the darkness.

"I love you too, Patrick," said a male voice in falsetto.

In one smooth motion, Patrick sat up while grabbing his derringer from the small table inside the mosquito net. He pointed it at the doorway. The light from his jar-enclosed candle did nothing to illuminate the familiar figure silhouetted against the distant sky.

"Mashburn," Patrick said, dropping his gunpoint toward the mat-covered dirt floor. "What are you doing here?"

"Coming to get _you_, you damned fool." The tall man stooped to pass under the lintel and into the light. The boyish face looked older than when Patrick had last seen him eight months before, but the big grin flashed just the same as ever. "Get your stuff and let's go." Then he glanced around until his gaze fell on a light switch. He flipped it, turning on the low wattage bare fluorescent bulb over the kitchen area. Taking a quick glance around, he grimaced and shut the light off again. "What a dump, Patrick! It's worse than when I last saw it."

Running his hand over his long, unruly hair as he replaced the gun on the table, Patrick had to agree. It wasn't one of his finer residences. Even the Aerie at CBI headquarters had more charm than this shack backing to the village's midden pile. "Go where?"

Again the cheeky, boyish grin.

"Maybe a barber first. What's with the whiskers? And your hair is a mop. Teresa is not even going to recognize you through all that hair."

"Go to hell, Walter."

"I just arrived in hell." He gestured around the room. "And I've come to take you out of it."

Patrick slipped out of his mosquito tent and nodded his head toward the bottle of scotch on the counter next to the unused hotplate.

"Have a drink while you explain what you mean by that. But turn on the light first."

When the fluorescent flickered back on, Mashburn took a couple of steps into the hut. He picked up the bottle and let out a low whistle. He looked at Patrick who had just slipped his plaid surfing shorts back on.

"You're the town drunk on twelve-year-old single malt? Man, I knew you were eccentric but this is ridiculous."

"Only the best with your money, Walter."

Mashburn jerked his head back in surprise, then set the bottle down.

"Come on! I checked. You haven't used a dime of that stash I left you at the house."

"Oh, I was tempted, Walter, especially when you added to it."

"How are you getting along?"

"I have a little money of my own. I told you that before. It wasn't like I couldn't figure out that I'd be on the run after I killed Bertram. Besides, living here is cheap."

"Well…except for paying off the bribes to local canton politicians as some of us have to," Walter said. "Not all of us have the reputation as a charmer of both men and women. But you're right. Cheap rent, cheap women, cheap help…"

_Especially when you're serving as the number one employer in the region. The local government doesn't want to do anything to discourage you, do they?_

Jane reached for his shirt, a faded, patterned thing that clashed with his surf shorts but worked perfectly to exemplify him as a poor local serf in Mashburn's petty little kingdom.

"I assure you, that Laphroaig is the real deal and not cheap at all."

"Oh, I believe you," Mashburn chuckled.

Patrick crossed the room to pick up the bottle and bumped into the billionaire as the other man stepped away. He apologized and placed glasses to dole out two fingers for each of them. "My only luxury lately," he mumbled, touching his glass to Walter's.

"Let me change that for you, Patrick."

He met the billionaire's gaze, studying him for some clue about why the man was there. To his horror, he found Mashburn unreadable. He'd finally lost his mojo.

But he wasn't going to show it.

"What is it that you want?" he asked.

"Your cooperation. I worked out a deal with the Feds; they retain one of my subsidiaries in a military contract and I talk you into turning yourself into the US Embassy in San José."

"The Feds? Which agency? FBI? Homeland Security? CIA? IRS?"

"More than one, actually."

Patrick paused only a moment before, taking a sip of his simple joy that he usually allowed once a week – Sunday afternoons at 2:15pm, the exact time he killed Gale Bertram, aka Red John, in that city park by the capitol building. Apart from tasting good, it temporarily banished the sting he still felt on his tongue from when Bertram's blood landed in his gasping mouth.

"Walter, you helped me get here to begin with. Why would I want to turn myself in? And give up this luxurious lifestyle?"

Mashburn quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Three reasons, smartass. First, the FBI is working on extradition papers with the Costa Rican government to haul your sorry carcass back to the US. Second—"

Patrick pointed northward. "Nicaragua is ten miles that way and has no extradition agreement with the US. I could easily slip into the jungle and out of the country."

Mashburn gave him a sour look and then continued like Jane hadn't interrupted. "Second, the CIA is working to get their extradition papers filed before the FBI so they can haul your sorry carcass back to the US. The Feds want you in a very big way and are willing to fight each other over getting you. And of course, Costa Rica is quite willing to play along in an effort to keep Washington happy with them. Come to think of it, Nicaragua would probably be glad to sacrifice you for that same purpose."

"What do the Feds want with me?"

Walter took a sip of his scotch and made an appreciative noise before examining the glass closely. For some reason, he looked like Colonel Hogan from the television show Hogan's Heroes. Maybe it was the scheming look behind the eye. "Well, let's see. The way it was explained to me is that apart from the phenomenal way you caught bad guys and at one time had saved National Security from a code breaking machine – something I appreciate, by the way, since all my systems could have been affected by a universal hack – I have heard some rumor that they both want to hire you."

"Hire _me_?"

"Yeah, I told them that it was a crazy idea, that you're certifiably mad. Somehow, I think they're both counting on bringing your sanity back by dropping the charges of murder and assault on a law enforcement officer."

"Assault on what officer?" That was an outrageous charge. He hadn't hit anyone in his escape from Hedley Park.

"They say you knocked over one of the Sacramento police officers who responded."

"He tripped on Bertram's gun! I never touched him."

Again, Mashburn took a sip. Patrick suspected it was to hide a smirk, although that wasn't like Walter at all. The man reveled in his smirk. He was practically famous for his smirk. With a soft growl, Patrick took a sip of his own drink.

"Aren't you going to ask what the third reason is?"

"What?"

"The third reason. The one that will convince you to go to San José with me."

Damn. He really was losing his touch. No, he hadn't even thought about it.

"I figured you'd get to it eventually," he lied, covering his failure. "You like to make a grandstand that you readily perform to."

"Well, Mr. Pot, it's nice to meet you," Mashburn said, his tones droll. "Please call me 'Black'."

"Come off it, Walter. What's the third reason?"

Again, Mashburn took a leisurely sip of his scotch while Patrick held onto his patience as much as possible.

"Teresa Lisbon is waiting there. Waiting for _you_. Something about how much she misses you or some bullshit."

Patrick stared for a moment and then pulled Mashburn's jeep keys from his own pocket. Walter looked shocked and then patted his jeans.

"Let's go, Walter. Teresa's waiting."

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Thank you for reading. I appreciate reviews.


	2. Perfect Eggs

Thanks to everyone who requested a reunion scene. Here it is. I hope it satisfies.

Special thanks to Make-Mine-A-Kiaora (a.k.a. Chris) and Cumberland River Romance (a.k.a. CRR) for their beta reading and feedback. I had some real issues with vision clarity for Teresa's POV and they were both great help, especially Chris who identified a tangent I'd run off into and needed to be hauled back from. Thanks to both of these fantastic writers. Be sure to check out their portfolios here on FanFiction.

* * *

It wasn't a ride in the helicopter.

Jane had hoped it would be, rushing him and Mashburn toward San Jose, skimming over the jungle canopy, the coffee plantations and the rolling farmlands. He'd seen the helicopter over Mashburn's compound several times in the past, assuming that it was heading to or from San Jose with Mashburn on board. He had dreams of being in that copter, except it was flying northwest toward Teresa in Sacramento, not southwest toward the capital city. It was a ludicrous idea that a helicopter could make it all that way without refueling, but no one ever said dreams had to be logical.

Instead his dream was being fulfilled the next morning through the use of an armored Hummer with mercenary escort in front and behind them, traveling through Costa Rica at a mind-numbingly slow pace. It seemed slow anyway, considering Teresa Lisbon was at the end of the journey. He'd wanted to start out the night before, but it was foolish to drive that kind of distance after dark. Civilized though the country was, night driving through the jungle was fool-hardy.

Still, for a small Central American country, the highway was very fast. He admired Costa Rica in that it had some modern infrastructure like the Inter American Highway. Eco-tourism was good for that.

Patrick glanced at the driver on the other side of the bulletproof glass. All he could really read was that the man enjoyed having a brutish job and was probably on amphetamines. He couldn't see much of the guard in the passenger seat, but based on the uncontrolled sniffling heard through the comm speaker, Patrick guessed that either the man had a cold or he was a cocaine abuser. The latter was fairly common with Mashburn's 'posse'.

Patrick turned his gaze to Mashburn raising a bottle of Evian to his lips.

"So, Walter, tell me again what you get out of this?"

"This what?" Mashburn gave him a half-smile like Jane had just made a kindergartner's joke about snails. It was more than just a little condescending.

"Why are you working with the US Government to bring me back to the States?"

"Very lucrative contract. The Pentagon will turn a favorable eye towards my wing assembly testing subsidiary in exchange for bringing you home."

To Jane's annoyance, Mashburn looked one hundred percent sincere. This wasn't a new annoyance. From the time they'd arrived at Walter's compound the night before, through breakfast (conspicuously missing any rice or any beans) and then through the three hours of the three and a half hour drive, Jane had been trying to read the billionaire for signs of deception. All he found was self-satisfied amusement.

"Be straight with me, Walter. Tell me the truth. Either the IRS or the SEC is looking to press charges against you for something, right? And turning me over to the FBI or the CIA will keep your neck out of the noose?"

Another damned smirk. If it weren't for the fact that he knew Mashburn had a small gun in an armpit holster, Jane would have gladly punched the little smile from his face.

"Jane, you've turned into some kind of idiot, you know that? You managed to prevent jungle rot in your feet but allowed it in your brain." He reached over and shut off the communication to the driver's compartment. "You want the truth? The whole truth?"

"Yes, of course."

"You're not going to like it." The smirk vanished as Walter looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"Tell me."

"It's…it's because of Teresa."

Glacial winds whipped past his heart, forcing a small gasp from his lips. Before he knew it, his hands were clenching the lapel of Mashburn's light linen sports coat.

"What's wrong with her?" he demanded.

Mashburn gestured dismissively to assure the alarmed guard before looking Jane in the eye.

"Let go, dude."

With reluctance, Jane loosened his grip and then leaned back in his seat. After Mashburn straightened his jacket, he cracked his neck and reassumed his trademark smirk.

"The truth, Patrick, is that I have found myself in love with Lisbon."

The icy winds once again knocked Jane in the chest. He stared into Walter's eyes and saw the first sign of true emotion. Broken-hearted sorrow.

"She has no interest in me, of course, because…because she's surrendered her heart to you. And for the first time in my life, I…I find myself wanting to do something for someone else, knowing I'll get nothing out of it. I just want her to be happy. The only way that would ever happen again is if you come back into her life."

"That's not true-"

"It is, Patrick. You haven't seen her in two years. I have. You have to understand that with you out of the picture, I'd been trying to win her over. I was certain I could make something of a relationship with her. She's the only woman who has ever successfully resisted my attention lavished on her. I figured if I were truthful with her, well, maybe she would reconsider."

Jane understood that perfectly. There was one time when _he_ almost had her, strictly on his use of an intentionally seductive smile, back in the early days of working together. In the course of the setup to catch that redhead-loving and psychopathic chef, making Lisbon think he was considering her a potential lover was delicious…but she was too smart – or too wise – to fall for it seriously.

Mashburn continued with a shrug. "But it's no use. Instead of turning to me to commiserate, she's only sunk into deeper despair. It's like she's a shell of her former self, cracking along the seams. Almost as badly as you." Then he scoffed. "Between the two of you, it's like watching one of those stupid Shakespeare plays that my third wife dragged me to because she wanted to show we had 'culture'."

He looked down at the bottle of water in his hands before taking another gulp. Then he stared out the window.

"So is Teresa really here in Costa Rica?"

Mashburn started, looking at Jane like he'd long forgotten who was in the car with him.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, she's really waiting at the embassy… I didn't tell her that I'd helped you escape, just that you'd contacted me and I convinced you to turn yourself in."

"Oh, you're such a hero, Walter."

Again, the temptation to punch Mashburn in the nose appeared – that damned smirk.

"I'd appreciate you not sharing my duplicity. She may not love me, but I won a coupla points telling her where you are." Then he glanced over Jane's outfit. "That's the best thing in my closet that you could find?"

Jane scoffed this time. "I tried the tux on for size. It was a bit long in the arms and legs. Besides, the FBI and the CIA won't care how I'm dressed. By the way, who am I turning myself into at the embassy?"

For the first time, a sincere smile spread across Walter's face, an expression of a little amusement and even true friendship.

"Neither. Believe it or not, Patrick, I think I may have scored a few points with you as well. I have friends in both those agencies. After pulling a few strings, I got appointments to see both Dimmesdale and Prynne—"

"Who?" Jane asks, demanding confirmation of the names he just heard.

"John Dimmesdale, the head of the CIA, and Nathan Prynne of the FBI."

Jane blinked at him for a moment and then shook his head. "So you talked to some famous 'sinners' and…?"

"Sinners?"

Jane rolled his eyes.

"Google it later. What did they say?"

"Both of them want to get their hands on you, just like I told you before."

"Uh huh. And what do you get out of this?"

A proud smile spread across Walter's lips. "Not a damned thing."

"Nothing?"

"Well…the satisfaction of successfully selling your skills. They needed some convincing that you were harmless and not the lunatic the press had made you out to be before the whole law enforcement corruption thing and the truth about Bertram came out. Of course, by then they stopped reading about you and concentrated on that Tyger Tyger thing—"

"No, really, Walter, what did you get?"

Walter laughed, genuinely amused. "I hope I got undying friendship from both you and Teresa. That's all I want."

Patrick Jane had to finally admit it to himself. He had a friend.

He smiled and shook Walter's hand.

* * *

Teresa Lisbon thanked the clerk as the young Hispanic woman set the coffee cup onto the table in front of her. When the woman – girl, really – stood there with the tray pressed to her belly, Teresa realized she'd forgotten to approve the drink so the girl could leave.

It was Teresa's fourth cup. Why would it seem like she'd disapprove it this time?

With a sigh, Teresa brought it to her lips and blew a little before drawing a small sip. She nodded her acquiescence, and the clerk smiled and left.

It was absolutely first rate coffee, the freshest she'd ever tasted. No doubt if Jane were there, he'd remind her that Costa Rican coffee was amongst the finest in the world but 'really it had to do mostly with the soil and the weather and'…blah, blah, blah. He'd go on for five minutes explaining everything she didn't know and then look at her firmly, expecting her to give a summary and conclusion generated from his annoying little lecture.

God, she missed that.

They'd gotten to be real partners in those frantic days leading up to the final showdown, starting with his sincere apology that he left on her phone. Would wonders never cease?

_Who are you and what have you done with my self-centered, irresponsible, obsessed partner?_

There were moments, of course, but for the most part, he let her into his plans before he executed them. They never would have narrowed down the list of suspects if he hadn't opened up about what he'd discovered and what he was thinking.

Oh, but what about leaving her at the bea—

"Ow!" Damn, that coffee was hot. She needed to slow down drinking it.

Placing the cup on the end table, she looked around the elegant office. She'd been in an embassy before, but it was in the US as part of her job. Foreign embassies were full of elegant rooms showing off comfort, craftsmanship and wealth. The US Embassy was a bit of a surprise. Basically it was just a collection of offices and conference rooms with US flags and Costa Rican flags combined as if in friendship. Kinda belied the impression she got when she and Walter pulled up in his limo to the razor-wired gate protected by armed guards with AK-47s standing on alert. And when they entered, she found they were in a heavily fortified compound, with barbed wired double walls very much like a prison. It wasn't so much the guns and the barbed wire and the potential for danger that bothered her. It was…well, what the hell was Jane doing in a country that was so hazardous? The man was about as citified and physically defenseless as the world had ever produced, with his three-piece suit and his jaunty Devil-may-care confidence. Did he even know any Spanish? She'd heard him order tacos but really…

She shook her head. The thought of Patrick Jane living in a land where the highway tollbooths had armed police by them just boggled her mind.

Walter boggled the mind too. He'd gone from being a pain in the ass pest who sent her flowers and expensive gifts and begged her every other week to come to expensive restaurants with him to…just… being normal.

It was a relief, frankly.

He was the last person she ever expected to walk up to her and say 'I know where Patrick Jane is and I'm trying to arrange for him to come home.'

_Come home._ God, she'd prayed for that since he'd left her outside her apartment. Legally she should have arrested him, but instead they just stared at each other. She wanted to grab him by the labels and kiss him, but when tears pricked at her eyes, fury consumed her for his making her cry.

The last time she'd cried over a man she loved was when Sam Bosco told her he loved her and then died. Then with Patrick standing there silently, saying the same thing with his expression but not confessing it with the words, all she could do was stare back uselessly. At least Sam had the guts to say 'I love you' before leaving her. Patrick was too much of a coward. Her disappointment as he turned away exploded into all-consuming rage, and as he disappeared into the darkness, she collapsed into herself, sobbing and screaming 'I hate you!' from the depths of her soul.

But she'd known it for the lie it was. Every fiber had tingled with love for him and she couldn't bear to have him leave her again. That's what she'd hated – that she was losing him, probably for the last time.

Teresa swallowed hard as she realized her sour stomach was forming again, like it did the many times the memories had flittered through her brain down their familiar path. She buried her face in her hands, fighting the lump in her throat, that anger born of self-pity. Despite knowing justice should be done even for the likes of Red John, she wanted Patrick to be free. Liking it was a different story but she'd been presented that type of bill before, starting with not reporting her abusive father, then taking care of her brothers when she should have turned them over to protective services because she was under-aged to legally take care of them. Then, when Bosco got away with killing Andrew Dodd when it was impossible to make a legal case against that murderous son of a bitch, Teresa stood back and let it happen. It was wrong – she knew that to the depth of her quivering Catholic soul – but she let it happen.

And now Jane. Was that why she was so determined to stop him? So she wouldn't have to pay the price again? It certainly was the reason for her anger.

Well, this time she paid the price and still didn't get the product. Jane murdered Red John and she still lost him.

He'd always said that after he'd killed Red John, he was perfectly willing to accept the consequences, whether it was prison-time or even capital punishment, so long as Red John was dead. That's what he did after he killed Timothy Carter. She expected the same as last time. She was even willing to forgive him like she did last time.

But, no. Instead he escaped and disappeared. She had no idea where to.

Then Walter said he was helping Jane come home. After that, it was a simple matter of putting two and two together. Mashburn helped Jane escape, maybe used his private jet to transport Jane to Brazil, maybe on his yacht. Perhaps he gave Jane some money, all in the name of generating some excitement in his life. Anything for Mashburn's amusement at the expense of her broken heart.

Damn him. She should have known that 'being normal' was just an act. Why did she surround herself with such scammers all the time?

Because they had power and confidence. She couldn't stand seeing a man being weak. It reminded her too much of her dad whose self-pity made her very angry.

That's why her own self-pity enraged her so. It would take nothing to fall into that trap. It was almost like she was genetically predisposed to it and her only weapon to fight it was anger which was a double-edged sword because it was her father's weapon too.

In surrender, she fell back against the settee.

"Oh Patrick…" she said, mingling the words with a sigh.

"Yes?"

She jumped up and spun around.

He looked…amazing. The first thing she saw was his eyes, not as clear and bright as they'd once seemed but still too gorgeous to believe. His blond curls were long and somewhat tangled, looking wild and free over the top of his head, except a sun-bleached lock that fell over his furrowed brow. He parted it on the other side too, on the right instead of the left.

The tan to his skin was golden and healthy, like he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. Was he working? Like, an actual job? Or was it just a part of living in Central America? She supposed there weren't many old brown couches in the jungle, but she could see him adapting readily to a hammock.

She looked down his body; he was actually ripped now, a light-weight but somewhat small shirt clung to his chest, displaying rounded muscles. He wore Madras shorts and flipflops that exposed well-toned calves. Her gaze traveled back up his body and for the first time noticed his chin.

_He has a beard! Oh my god, a red beard!_

"Jane… you son of a bitch…"

She hadn't meant to say it, although she'd dreamed of saying it to him since the first morning she woke up with the thought that he was gone. For a brief moment, pain flashed in his eyes but he stepped forward with his arms held toward her. She didn't know if she should slap him or leap into his embrace.

He didn't give her a choice. Wrapping his arms around her, he captured her lips in a sweet kiss that melted all her resolve into a messy puddle. It was warm and loving, feeling like all the world had stopped just so she could enjoy the sensation of having the love of her life hold her with a strong, earnest embrace to express his deep affection. It left her completely boneless and that was fine because he was effortlessly supporting her, lifting her off her feet, keeping her pressed to his broad chest. His large hand behind her head tilted her face just enough to have his lips cover hers completely. The tip of his tongue slipped past his parted lips and caressed ever so gently. In surprise she gasped, and in typical Jane fashion he pressed the advantage, sliding into her mouth to greet her tongue with his own.

Walter's voice burst in like it was coming from a loud speaker, although he was probably speaking normally.

"The security camera footage of that kiss is going to end up on a porn site in a matter of minutes, kids. I'd be careful if I were you."

Patrick Jane withdrew his tongue but not the embrace. He rested his head on her shoulder, releasing a soul-deep sigh.

"Teresa, my... my dear. I've missed you so much."

She choked on the sudden lump in her throat and brought her arms up to wrap around his neck.

"I've missed you too."

"I'm sorry I ever hurt you, Teresa. I… I love you."

The tears burst from her eyes.

"I love you too, Patrick. Never leave me again."

"Never. I promise."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated and welcome._


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